


Home

by Practicefortheheart



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4150857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Practicefortheheart/pseuds/Practicefortheheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rumbling of the Rig calmed him, it was almost hypnotic: the endless stretch of dusty road and the sun low in the sky, the hum of the engine, the rusty creaking as they drove. His hand rested on his custom steering wheel, the skull ornament grinning up at him wickedly. This Rig had been the closest thing to home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little idea I had!
> 
> Unbeta'd and mainly written from memory. 
> 
> <3

Sherlock scanned the horizon. Nothing but wasteland and the harsh blue sky. But then everything was hard here. Everyone.

The stranger next to him certainly was. He hadn’t said much, but there was no time, not much to say, just instinct. Run. Drive. Fight. Sherlock glanced at his uninvited passenger again. The man was in rough shape - he would be, after escaping the War Boys. Simple and dumb as they were, they were fierce and desperate and made for battle.

‘What is your name?’ Sherlock asked. His voice was gravelly, his throat dry. They’d need to find some water soon.

The stranger looked up at him from under knitted brows. His eyes were bright glints of blue in his weathered face. Fine wrinkles and fair lashes framed them, and Sherlock thought they were like drops of water in the desert - the rest of his face was brown, like everything else here, tanned and caked with sand and smears of oil and blood.

The man shifted his gaze away from Sherlock, looking out at the vast nothingness before them, squinting a little against the glare of the sun.

‘Does it matter?’ His voice was softer than Sherlock would have guessed. It sounded odd, coming from this hard, silent man. But then Sherlock supposed the voice matched his eyes and maybe this man could have been gentle once. In another time.

‘I suppose it doesn’t,’ Sherlock conceded.

He checked the backseat. Irene was slumped against the window, fast asleep now. She’d have to hide again soon enough. He decided to give her just a little more time.

The rumbling of the Rig calmed him, it was almost hypnotic: the endless stretch of dusty road and the sun low in the sky, the hum of the engine, the rusty creaking as they drove. His hand rested on his custom steering wheel, the skull ornament grinning up at him wickedly. This Rig had been the closest thing to home.

***

‘Give me the gun!’ Sherlock shoved his mechanical arm through the window of the cabin, while his other hand grabbed at the roof, trying to hold on.

‘It’s not loaded yet!’ Irene screamed back at him, panic colouring her voice, her hands rummaging around in the leather bag on her lap where she had put all the remaining ammunition after counting the bullets.

The rig swerved dangerously, almost throwing him off. Finally he felt the cool metal of the gun being pressed into his hand, and he swung himself up, slamming the butt of the gun hard against the skull of the War Boy climbing up the side of the cabin. The boy’s fingers lost their grip, and his eyes were wide and wild in his pale face as he slid away.

Sherlock braced himself and aimed the gun. The only thought left in his mind was survival.

***

The darkness was eery, but the cool air welcome. Sherlock watched as the cold light of the moon changed their surroundings, drained the stranger’s face of the little colour it had left. His eyes black now, empty shadows. Irene was humming softly. A sad lullaby.

The Rig was still being followed, but they had the advantage for now, and Sherlock was glad of it. They were low on ammo, and they still had a while to go before they would reach The Green Place.

Sherlock tried not to think about it too much, but occasionally memories would flash through his mind. He remembered Mycroft, his Brother, and wondered if he would still be waiting for his return.

The Rig stopped abruptly with a screech, jostling its passengers. Sherlock quickly jumped out to check for damage. He scanned the swampy land behind them and saw a light closing in through the fog.

‘Shit!’ He stomped back to the cabin. 

Irene poked her head out.‘What’s up?’

‘I need to do some repairs, but the Bullet Farmer is close.’ He pointed at the single light in the gloom.

The stranger was quiet as ever, but he climbed out of the cabin and on top of the Rig. His eyes never leaving the target, he motioned at Irene, until she passed him the gun. He aimed carefully, took his time. Sherlock couldn’t look away. A shot broke the silence, ringing loud in his ears. The light blinked out.

They stood there for a few moments. Irene hanging out of the window, her hair falling down in waves. The stranger slowly lowered the gun.

And then he heard shots being fired, seemingly out of nowhere, hitting the Rig and the sand at his feet, aimless and uncoordinated.

‘What are they doing? I’m right here!’ Irene yelled, ‘They can’t damage me!’

Sherlock rolled his eyes, hurrying back to the relative safety of the cabin.

The stranger jumped in front of him.

‘Start the repairs.’ He turned to leave.

‘What if you’re not back by the time it’s fixed?’

The man fixed him with a look. ‘You drive.’

***

He had come back. Blood running down his face, the Bullet Farmer’s ammunition belts slung over his broad shoulders.

Sherlock had waited.

Stranger’s mouth quirked up in a smile.

***

They were almost there, they were almost back at the Citadel.

He could see it, he could see the last members of his tribe building a home there. Planting seeds, growing crops. Smiling. Greg was there, next to the Rig, riding a motorcycle, dodging bullets and explosions. A grim concentration on his face. Hope.

The pain in his side was too hard to ignore. Sherlock felt his body starting to shut down. He sensed Stranger looking at him with worried eyes but he wouldn’t give in, not yet.

***

‘No, no! No, come on, stay with me!’

Sherlock was floating. His vision swimming. It was so cold. He didn’t think he would miss the dry heat of the desert, but now he did. He thought he might see the sky, but there was only grey and brown and cold.

‘No no no no, Sherlock!’

That was his name. Sherlock. The voice was so soft, a warm wooly blanket. He wanted to hear more of it. It sounded like home. He tried to say so, but his voice was weak, too.

‘Home’ he whispered. It sounded broken.

The fingers on his cheek were warm and soft as well. He leaned into them, seeking comfort. He needed to get up, he needed to go home. But it was easier to float away, like this, with warm words and soft fingers.

‘John,’ the voice suddenly said, ‘My name is John. That’s my name.’

Sherlock focused, trying to clear his vision. There they were. Bright blue. Like rain in the desert.

‘John.’

It sounded like hope.


End file.
